


brown eyes and cheap whiskey

by wren_rw



Category: It Lives (Visual Novels)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Underage Drinking, Underage... kissing I guess?, there's some bad language because they're both highschool seniors and so am I so what do you expect
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:55:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25596127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wren_rw/pseuds/wren_rw
Summary: Devon still hates whiskey, and always will. It’s just that.. it’s taste is sweeter, somehow, after it’s passed through Noah’s lips.
Relationships: Noah Marshall & Main Character (It Lives in the Woods)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 11





	brown eyes and cheap whiskey

They’re sorting through the cardboard boxes given to them by Cora Pritchard, when Devon spots a bottle of whiskey trapped between two leather tomes.

The girl holds it up against the light, wrinkling her nose in distaste. “Pritch the witch… you have terrible taste.” 

Noah calls her a bully, and Devon fires back, which leads to them bother bickering about whether or not whiskey is as awful as Devon says it is.  
  
She’s never seen Noah have a drink in his life, so something tells her that he enjoys arguing with her more than he enjoys the drink itself. 

To prove her point, Devon cracks the bottle open and proposes a toast. 

“You can have the first sip, since you’re such a big fan.” 

Let the record reflect that Noah Marshall has never been one to step down from a challenge. He wraps his hand around the bottleneck and takes a swig. 

He spits it out directly afterward, because it’s disgusting, but- hey. Credit where credit is due. 

Then, of course, Devon has to take a sip, and somehow- they end up trading the bottle back and forth, their heads growing lighter with every sip. 

Whiskey is gross. But, apparently, it grows on you a bit. 

By the time dusk has fallen, they’re both sprawled across Noah’s bed, the bottle passing between them like a secret.

And no, Noah was most certainly _not_ right- Devon still hates whiskey, and always will. It’s just that.. it’s taste is sweeter, somehow, after it’s passed through Noah’s lips. 

Speaking of which, Noah’s cheeks are flushed to rose, he’s letting Devon rest against his side, and he looks more relaxed than she’s seen him in years. 

So...you know. Maybe whiskey isn’t the _worst_. 

“Allright, fine. I don’t hate it.” Devon smacks her lips contemplatively, passing the amber bottle back into Noah’s hand. “It probably cost like, five dollars, and it kind of tastes like hand sanitizer, but-” 

They laugh together, and the sound makes something flutter behind her ribs. “But it’s nice.” 

Whether it was due to the sleepy feeling setting in from the alcohol, or just Noah's general instincts for survival, he doesn’t rub his victory in her face. 

He just hums in agreement, leaning further into the headboard. “Yeah. Gives you this sort of.. bubbly feeling, you know? It’s like...”  
Something keeps him from finishing his thought, and he trails off, biting his lip. 

The silence draws out for long enough for Devon to worry it’s going to stick. Then Noah looks over at her, and his brown eyes are so soft, they make her heart stop in her chest. 

“It reminds me of those sleepovers we had, with Jane. We’d try to stay up all night, and we got so tired that just- _everything_ was funny.”

“Yeah,” she breathes, and her smile just might be enough to break her face in half. “Yeah, you’re right.” 

They sit in companionable silence for a moment, both of them quieted by the idea that anything had ever been that simple. 

“Do you remember that time you hid a peanut butter sandwich in your pillowcase?” 

Noah snorts, which leads to Devon giggling like a schoolgirl, which somehow leads to them both pressed even closer to each other than before. 

Blame it on the alcohol running like honey through her veins, but Devon is painfully aware of every point of contact between them. The seam of Noah’s jeans pressing into her leg. His hand resting centimeters from hers. Shoulder against shoulder. 

Just the thought of how easy it would be to cross that distance makes something buzz beneath her skin like static.

She’s always thought that beneath all the layers he’s always wearing, Noah must run cold. But he’s _warm,_ and solid, and the combination only makes it harder to fight the heat rising in her cheeks.

At her side, Noah has a far-away expression on his face. Wherever he’s gone... Devon wishes that she could follow. 

“You know... I had the biggest crush on you back then.”

It’s said so casually that the words take a moment for Devon to register.

  
She blinks, slow and stupid. “What?”

  
  
Noah takes a long, pointed sip of the whiskey in his hand.

  
  
“Noah. Say sike right now.” Devon straightens, shoving his shoulder. “Noah!”  
  
He laughs, almost spilling his drink, and shoves her back. “What? You were a badass!" 

She must look like she’s bordering on hysteria, but Noah just shrugs and hides his smile behind the mouth of the glass. “You're still pretty badass, actually.”

He passes back the half-empty bottle, and Devon stares down at it’s contents, considering the likelihood of Pritch having contaminated it somehow. Noah must be delirious, or drugged, or cursed, or _something_ . Because there’s no way he just said _that_. 

“If you’re making fun of me, I swear to god-” 

“I’m not.” He _looks_ honest. Tipsy, and a little anxious maybe, under the surface- but honest. “I’m not making fun of you.”  
  
She really, _really_ doesn’t know what to make of that. She settles for passing the bottle.  
  
“How old were you? Like, six?”  
  
He nods, taking another sip and immediately wincing at the taste. Devon fights tooth and nail against the fondness that blossoms in her chest. “From when I was six, to… I don’t know. Seven, maybe?”  
  
“Huh.” She makes an attempt to settle down again, but the pose feels too relaxed somehow, too casual for a moment like this. She still feels like she’s just had some sort of religious epiphany. “Okay… that's adorable.” 

Noah groans, digging both of his palms into his eyes in remorse. “God, no it’s not, shut up.” 

“It is!” She’s cackling far too gleefully, but Noah’s too mortified to notice, and she’s too elated to care. 

“Christ. You’re never going to let this go.” 

Devon almost agrees, before a sudden realization kills her high. “Wait - shit.” 

She’s already lightheaded, the impending hangover hovering over her head like a dark cloud. “I’m a total lightweight, what if I don’t remember?”

Noah doesn’t seem to sympathize with her concerns, a timid grin creeping across the corners of his mouth. “Ah. That would be a shame.” 

Devon hits him again, and blames her slowed reflexes when the blow doesn’t carry any heat. “You know what, I’m going to write it down so I won’t forget.” 

“What? No, don’t-” The girl is halfway across the bed before Noah grabs hold of her waist, restraining her from behind with a chorus of _“No! Devon, no, don't-”_ and a few colorful expletives.

There’s a pen and notepad on Noah’s nightstand, just out of Devon’s straining reach. She makes one last valiant effort to lunge towards the stationary, before collapsing into a puddle of drunken laughter.

“God, _fine_! You win!” She gasps, wiggling underneath Noah’s weight in a way she hopes comes off as distraught. “Get off of me, you weigh a ton.” 

She must have overdone it a bit, because Noah moves away from her as quickly as he had come, almost as if he had been burned. That… wasn’t necessarily what she was going for. Maybe she should have gone with something a bit more neutral, like _“Get off of me… at your earliest convenience. No rush.”  
_ _  
_ Still, they’re left lying down side by side, Noah’s face resting just an arm’s reach away from hers, so… she can’t really find it within herself to complain. 

Devon blames her big mouth, those soft brown eyes, and cheap whiskey for what happens next.

  
“You know, I kind of liked you too.”  
  


There’s a beat of silence where Devon thinks Noah hadn’t heard. Something small and terrified wonders if they’d be better off.   
  
Then Noah shifts _\- pulling away from her, Shit-_ and looks down, suddenly fascinated by the contours of his own hands. “You did?” 

Devon’s not sure why Noah’s voice came out so small, but she suddenly feels like she just said something wrong. 

“I- yeah. I did.” She tries for a laugh, taking a swig of their drink just to avoid looking at the expression on Noah’s face. 

There’s a moment of baited silence that Devon is desperate to break- he suddenly seems so much farther away then he was moments before. 

“How old were you?”

Devon feels the answer rising in her throat unbidden, fighting past the crashing wave of panic in it’s eagerness to _finally_ be heard. She tries to swallow it down, but - God. She could never lie to Noah Marshall. 

“From when I was six, to… seventeen.” 

Noah’s head snaps towards her, his eyes wide and broken open. He’s looking _right_ at her, and Devon realizes she prefered when he was looking away. _That’s not how you're supposed to look when someone confesses their feelings for you.  
__  
_ When he speaks, she can almost hear the unsaid accusation left behind the scratch in his voice. “We didn’t talk for years.” 

_You avoided me like the plague._

“I know.” Devon swallows past a lump in her throat, panic rising in the cavern of her chest. “I know, I just- I was just scared. I didn’t know how you would take it, and I didn’t want to push you away-” 

She shakes her head, wishing desperately that Noah’s flannel bedspread would rise up and swallow her whole. “You know what, just forget it, please. I’m really sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything- it was stupid-”

But then, she suddenly can’t seem to find the words that had been lodged in her throat. Because Noah was _staring_ , and, Well. She’s never seen anyone look at _anything_ like that. Eyes shining, like he was looking at something impossible - like she was some kind of miracle. 

“Why are you looking at me like that?”  
  
“Come here.” It comes out as a breath, and Devon isn’t sure that she heard him right. But then he’s leaning towards her, and- _“Shit,_ Devon. Come here, come here-”

After that, all that’s left is Noah’s hands, pulling her closer, Noah’s hair, between her fingers, and _Noah’s mouth._ Noah’s mouth on hers.  
  
Devon wonders to herself if what she’d done before even constituted as breathing. Every breath she’d ever taken was nothing compared to the air she pulls from Noah Marshall’s lungs. 

They take their time to adjust to each other's rhythm, sorting out how their lips fit together best. It’s like a conversation, without speaking, and Devon has _so much_ she wants to say. 

The taste of whiskey passes between their mouths, burning in their chests like the wicks of a candle. 

It’s Noah who eventually has the sense to come up for air. 

For a moment, they just sit there and _look_.

Nose to nose, Devon’s disbelief that really _\- finally-_ happened is perfectly mirrored on Noah’s face. Then, they can’t help but laugh, giddy and hopeless, until they’re pulled back together and they catch the sound with their mouths. 

“Wait.” Devon inches back just enough to speak. The realization that she’s somehow made it unto Noah’s lap is enough to derail her train of thought for a moment, but Devon eventually remembers how to form a coherent sentence.   
  


_“You-”_ She wills all the accusation she can muster into the single syllable- _“_ said you got over me when you were seven."  
  


The flush on Noah’s cheeks goes dark, suddenly sheepish. “I mean… technically, I said _maybe-_ ” 

“Oh my god. You are the _worst_ , Noah, Jesus Christ!”

Devon tackles him down onto the bedspread, and he’s laughing again, and _Devon really should make that sound her ringtone or something. So she can hear it every day._

“I can’t believe you lied to me!”  
  
“I didn’t!” he protests, fighting Devon off with one arm, and somehow holding unto her with the other. “Technically, I didn’t. You’re just… gullible.” 

She’s about to fight him on that, but then his eyes go warm and serious, and- 

“Do you really think anyone could forget about you that fast?” 

And… well. That really isn’t fair. 

She has no choice but to kiss him. And then kiss him again, harder, and then his back is against the headboard and she is _never_ getting out of his lap. 

When they finally come up for air, Devon rests her forehead against his, letting her heavy breath wash across his lips. He’s… _so warm,_ and she _wants_ , and she’s dizzy with the realization that she doesn’t have to fight it anymore. _He wants, too, he wants her back.  
_  
“You know…” Devon swallows down the liquid fire that’s been building since the first time their lips met. “I'm not actually that drunk.”

Noah must understand her meaning, because his grip tightens against her hips, a shaky exhale escaping his mouth.  
  
He swears, and Devon _knows_ what he wants, because it seems to take everything out of him to pull away enough to meet her eyes, and even more to give his answer. _“Fuck_ … I am. I _really_ am that drunk.”

He says it in the sort of way someone might say _“I have one day left to live”_ and it’s all Devon can do to suppress a laugh. 

“That’s okay. Another time.” Noah’s hair is soft between her fingers, and the idea of _another time, another day, another-_ is the sweetest thing she’s ever tasted. 

They kiss again, because they can, and because the novelty of it all hasn’t worn off and probably never will.  
  
“Hey.” This time, when Devon pulls back, Noah chases after her with his mouth, having apparently reached his limiting capacity for interruptions.  
  
She scoffs, covering his lips. _“I’m trying to say something,_ Noah!” 

He groans, but eventually abandons his efforts. “What?” 

_“_ You should write down a reminder.”  
  
“…A reminder.” 

“Yeah. You know, like I was going to do earlier. So that when you’re all hungover tomorrow, you won’t forget that all this happened.” 

Devon thinks that it was a perfectly reasonable suggestion, despite the fact that Noah is looking at her as if she just grew a second head.  
  
“I’m not going to _forget_ , Devon, there is _no_ way-” 

She grins at his dramatics, rubbing away the distressed crease in his forehead with her thumb. “Yeah, okay. But.. just in case?” 

He looks like he wants to argue some more, but after opening and closing his mouth enough times to resemble Lily's pet goldfish, he seems to accept defeat. “...Yeah, allright.” 

He doesn’t move. “Fine,” he says again, and something tells Devon that he’s stalling- but she’s just as reluctant to pull away from him, so she can’t really judge. 

He presses another kiss to the corner of her mouth, and Devon does her best to not smile too hard as he clambers out from under her and makes his way to his nightstand, grumbling all the way. 

“This is ridiculous,” Noah informs her, speaking through the pencap in his mouth. “You are ridiculous.” 

“Noted.”

He scribbles his note with a flourish, dropping the pen without bothering to recap it and slapping the paper back onto the table. He’s back in Devon’s arms before she has the time to ask what he had written. 

“Happy?” 

“Yeah.” Devon breathes deep, letting his steady weight against her chest and the scent of his shampoo anchor her to planet earth.

“Yeah, I.. I really am.” 

They end up falling asleep in Noah’s bed. Neither of them forget in the morning. 

* * *

Two weeks later... Redfield isn’t Redfield after all. It’s _Jane_ , _their Jane,_ and there’s something hanging over Noah’s head that looks like _grief_ and _guilt_. 

Two weeks later there’s a knife in Noah’s hand, and then he’s screaming, begging Jane to stop, and then there’s darkness descending down on him like a claim. _**“Let me take over for a while.”** _ _  
  
_

Everybody lives. That’s at least what they’re saying. _“That backstabbing bastard is just lucky everybody lived.”_

But if everybody lived, Devon would quite like someone to explain the gaping hole left in her chest, where Noah Marshal used to be. 

_He was just hurting, and lost, and if he told her about Jane, they could have found another way, together-_ Devon wants to scream it from the rooftops, but nobody wants to hear. Someone has to take the blame with things like this. 

In the end, Devon has one piece of him left. The scrap of paper from his nightstand- the reminder he had written to himself the night they had first kissed. 

His handwriting is so hasty that it’s hardly legible, but Devon can just barely make out- _“Got drunk and kissed Devon. Do it again, if you get the chance.”_

  
She remembers Noah calling her ridiculous, swearing to her that he could never _possibly_ forget something like that. Just the memory of that fire- of that young, _stupid_ boy’s indomitable spirit, is enough to harden her resolve. 

He isn’t going to forget. Devon isn’t going to let him. 

She gathers every memory she can hold- jackets, photos, and other odd momentos, and marches into the woods. _To hell with Redfield. To hell with curses, and Cora Pritchard, and anyone else who’s told her that Noah couldn’t be saved._

 _  
_ Devon hasn’t forgotten, either. 


End file.
